


And Baby God Makes Three

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is seriously going to kill Ty if this pregnancy thing doesn't kill him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Baby God Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt: Anders had Yggdrasil in his closet for quite a while. He let someone fuck him during that time. And now he's pregnant because tree of life and he has no clue what to do because this is not supposed to happen.

“Oh my god.”  
  
Dawn’s waiting for him outside of the bathroom, but Anders feels like he ought to tell her to abandon him forever because there is no way he’s leaving the bathroom. How could vodka have betrayed him this badly? It’s not like he’d done too much insane shit if you remove the vodka, the red wine, the weed, and a little bit of the...yeah, okay, he definitely has a reason to feel like this.  
  
“Anders,” Dawn says impatiently. “Are you planning on coming out anytime today?”  
  
Anders is too exhausted to bother with a witty retort because right now, Bragi has curled up in a tiny ball and refuses to play. He wraps his arms around the porcelain god he’s begun to worship and stares blearily at Dawn from where she’s standing outside his bathroom.  
  
“I think,” he starts, grateful when he manages to get through that much, “I’m going to work from home today.” And that’s all he manages before the hangover gets the best of him again and he turns and vomits the remainder of his stomach’s contents.  
  
He feels like shit for the rest of the day, but it doesn’t go away. No, it stays. It  _lingers_.  
  
By the time Ty comes over to spend the night, Anders is feeling slightly better -- better enough to have sex, at the very least -- and it's when he's got his ear on Ty's clothes-clad chest that he starts to feel comfortable. "Do you think your stomach can inevitably start eating you from the inside out?" he murmurs, wishing he had it in him to go round two.  
  
"It’s not like your immune system is crazy strong. It’s a bug, it’ll pass," Ty assures, threading his fingers through Anders' hair and stroking as soothingly as he can.  
  
“Easy for you to say. You never get sick, what with your ici-cells freezing any germs as soon as they get near you,” he grumbles, wiggling in order to get closer to one of the heaters they’ve been pumping into the room to help the room temperature when Ty stays the night – which is most nights, lately.  
  
He falls asleep feeling halfway close to better.  
  
In the morning, all hell breaks loose again.  
  
“Call Dawn,” Anders orders from his new home on the bathroom floor. “Tell her I’m not coming in today. Tell her I’m probably being eaten alive from the inside,” he groans, slumping against the wall and pressing his temple to the wall.  
  
Ty does as he’s told – because, at heart, he’s a good boy – but he vanishes from the room when there’s a knock at the door.  
  
“Who is it?” Anders shouts.  
  
Ty wanders back into the bathroom and looks a little paler than usual, which is impressive considering how pale Ty looks on any given day. In tow with him is Olaf, looking at Anders with accusation write in his eyes. “I had a dream.”  
  
“A  _dream_?” Anders echoes. “Or a ‘shroom dream.”  
  
“A  _dream_ ,” Olaf says heavily. “Anders, you really shouldn’t have been keeping Yggdrasil in your bedroom closet.”  
  
“Why? What’s it matter, it’s a stick?”  
  
“It’s the tree of life,” Olaf clarifies. “And it  _gives life_.”  
  
“Not following.”  
  
“Anders, you’re pregnant.”  
  
Anders snorts so vehemently that he actually chokes a little. “No, I’m not,” Anders promises. “See? No tits, grandpa. I’m still me. Not pregnant.” He fights the urge to be nauseous all over again, looking at Ty angrily. “Stop it,” he orders.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That’s your believe-it face. You believe this shit!”  
  
“Anders, you’ve had morning sickness for a while now,” Ty points out, gesturing wildly at the toilet and then back to Olaf. “And this, this sounds like one of Olaf’s surefire predictions. I mean, it’s not like I’m saying it’s normal, but apparently...”  
  
“Oh god,” Anders manages. “I’m going to be sick.”  
  
“It looks like you already have been quite a bit,” Olaf says helpfully, offering a bright smile. “Congratulations, Anders, you’re going to be the father to a god sprog. Now, let’s talk about your health and diet. Ingrid’s already drawn up a meal schedule for you to follow...”  
  
“Oh god,” Anders manages one more time and thinks of ten different ways he’s going to eviscerate Ty for getting him into this situation.  
  
*  
  
 _Month Three_  
  
After the whole ‘Anders is pregnant’ fiasco news got broken, a month was spent of gag gifts and insults and jokes and then things got back to normal. At least, until the baby bump. The worst part of this is keeping people in the dark, but it’s becoming so bad that Anders is starting to snap. Just yesterday, he told Dawn (with Bragi’s help) that she was to assume he was gaining weight and nothing more.  
  
Vanity, thy sake has been abandoned.  
  
The worst of this is the constant questions. Ingrid and Olaf had wasted no time in telling the others about Anders’ surprise pregnancy.  
  
And the reactions had almost been worth the pain.  
  
“No way,” Axl had laughed, sputtered sounds of disbelief.  
  
Mike hadn’t been much betters. “Pull the other one.”  
  
“Poor kid,” Michele had added.  
  
And Stacey had been the poor unfortunate soul to utter the question on everyone’s mind: “Who’s the father?” And then suddenly it’s like no other question has ever existed. Anders gets bombarded with questions while Ty, the smirking bastard, sits back and lets it happen. What a piss-poor fucking example of a father he’s going to be.  
  
It’s that smugness that makes Anders snap. “If you want to know who fathered the little bastard, look at Mr. Freezie over there.”  
  
It’s not exactly the best timing to say something like that. Now, at month three, everyone might be a little sensitive about that, but Anders has the surefire cure. He’s staring down at his bare stomach, a disgusted look on his face.   
  
“What?” Ty sighs, since he’s well aware that he’s going to get dragged into this, regardless.  
  
Anders pokes at the bump protruding from his stomach that proves that he’s either got a baby in his stomach or a really ungainly parasite making its home. “I’m getting fat,” he says, cupping the bump and peering at it in the mirror. “None of my shirts are going to fit, soon.”  
  
“You’re gestating life, Anders. It’s not fat, it’s a baby.”  
  
“To the rest of the world, it’s basically like I’m fat,” Anders scoffs, rubbing and peering over his shoulder. “Is it bad? Do I look disfigured?” he asks, peering down at the way his toes are starting to become obscured. “You’re seriously a pain in my arse, sprog,” he informs the kid.  
  
“I’m pretty sure a pain in your arse was how this started,” Ty jokes, which is only earning him further punishment as far as Anders is concerned, but Anders still lets Ty touch the bump and rub it with his fingers; but  _only_  because it feels so good.  
  
Still, there’s nothing in the world that can stop him when he has to change his shirt at the office and Dawn – oblivious old Dawn – comments that he must be putting on some weight because he’s got a bit of a stomach.   
  
Anders, never one to truly put in a good day’s work, puts aside all his clients and appointments to drive over to Johnson Refrigeration Services where he stalks inside and punches Ty in the face as  _hard as he can_ , which is about three months overdue.  
  
“What the fuck, Anders?”  
  
“Hormones,” is all Anders growls before heading back to the office with coffee for Dawn and something sickeningly non-caffeinated for himself.  
  
He really should have punched Ty twice, for that.  
  
*  
  
 _Month Five_  
  
“You can find out the sex of the baby,” Ingrid says.  
  
Anders stares at her wearily. It’s still early morning and he’s stumbled out of bed to pee for the fifth time that night wearing nothing but Ty’s robe and she’d accosted him outside of the washroom like he’s supposed to care about this sort of thing at six in the morning. He rubs at his eyes and remembers, fondly, how caffeine could fix all of this and alcohol would keep it going. “Ingrid,” Anders pleads. “I want to sleep.”  
  
“Very important for the baby, yes,” Ingrid agrees, “but don’t you think you ought to find out what we’re dealing with?”  
  
Anders had been turning around, but that stops him. “What?”  
  
“Well, it’s the sprog of a god and another god,” she points out. “If you’re having a girl, it’s a goddess and if it’s a boy, it’s a god. Don’t you think we should be prepared for that?”  
  
“Not my department. Yours,” Anders says, patting her on the shoulder before locking the bedroom door and crawling back into bed with Ty, groaning miserably as he burrows his forehead against Ty’s shoulder. “Your goddess pet is barking at me again.”  
  
“Don’t be a dickhead to Ingrid,” Ty commands sleepily.  
  
“Then make her stop backseat parenting.”  
  
“She’s not entirely wrong,” Ty says, adjusting enough so that he can slide his palm over Anders’ stomach, as has been his habit for the last few months. Now that Anders is showing as much as he is, Ty has taken to touching the baby and talking to the baby and probably communicating ‘how to stay cool in summer’ tips to the kid.   
  
Anders wants to sleep, he doesn’t want to get into this. Why the hell does no one else in the Johnson family value a good sleep? He can’t even get blackout drunk and pass out anymore and it’s a fucking shame. Now he actually has to wear himself out enough to drift off naturally. “We have twenty-one years,” he grumbles. “We should be more concerned about hiding this kid’s true nature from him or her.”  
  
“Why,” Ty drawls, “you don’t want to explain how Daddy got knocked up because he was an idiot who kept the tree of life in his cupboard and it wound up making a nice, handy uterus for it to live in?”  
  
Anders gives a disgusted ‘eugh’ of displeasure. “You’re spending too much time around me, you’re not supposed to be the arse, that’s my department.”  
  
“Osmosis,” Ty says sleepily.   
  
The argument isn’t brought up again for a week, but this time it’s Olaf who’s insistent. “Ingrid says that we can make lists. She really likes making lists.” He passes over the stack of pancakes to Anders, who takes it greedily and begins drowning it with molasses – much to the disgust of both Ty and Olaf, but he’s the pregnant one and if he’s going to get fat, then he’s going to earn it. “We can prepare.”  
  
“Twenty one years,” Anders says, mouth full of sticky pancakes. “I’ll probably be dead by then.”  
  
“Anders,” Ty chastises.  
  
“What, like I live a normal life? Seriously, if I don’t OD or get murdered by some pissy ex-client, then a goddess will probably do it,” Anders says, twirling his fork in the air. “I’m being realistic. Ty can raise the kid on his own.”  
  
Olaf takes the seat next to Anders, his plate piled high with toast – it turns out that pregnancy cravings and stoner munchies aren’t entirely different and they’ve been on something of a matched eating schedule. “What’s it like?”  
  
“What, sex with Ty?”  
  
“Can we not?” Ty pleads.  
  
Anders and Olaf ignore him. “Beyond the freezing aspect? I use space heaters a lot because I hate condoms when I’m fucking other men or they’re fucking me,” Anders says, licking some of the molasses off his lips as he reaches forward for some whipped topping. “It’s not that bad. I feel like part of it is being a god, but he’s never touched me and I woke up hypothermic,” he offers. “Besides, Ty’s a great fuck.”  
  
And if it weren’t for Ty’s incredibly pale skin, he’d be red as a beet.   
  
“Bet you wish you’d used a condom, now,” Olaf jokes.  
  
Anders stabs the pancake stack as hard as he can. “You have no fucking idea.”  
  
*  
  
 _Month Six_  
  
“Stop it!” Anders shouts, catching the attention of everyone else in the bar. Anders is glaring at his stomach and rests his palm atop the ever-growing bump that’s there. Mike sets back the vodka and draws out the decaf tea that he’s had to start carrying when Anders got pregnant, putting some on to boil.  
  
Michele, who is flaunting her alcoholic drink, doesn’t seem to want to cater to Anders’ issues as much. “Your baby is intelligent. She’s aware that a complete wanker is surrounding her and she wants out.”  
  
“It’s not a her. It’s not even a him. It’s an it right now,” Anders says sharply, fiddling with the papers he’s brought to the bar to work because if Dawn calls him fat one more time, he’s going to find her cat and he’s going to strangle the thing. “Don’t recruit my baby to your goddess solidarity crap.”  
  
“It’s a her,” Michele sing-songs. “Women know this sort of thing.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Anders accuses, setting his pen down to the counter as anger swells in him. “And even if it is a her, she’s not going to be one of your little lackey goddesses. She’s going to grow up in a family of proper gods.”  
  
“Anders,” Mike says patiently, before this can start into some turf war they can’t prevent. “What is it?”  
  
“The thing is kicking again,” Anders growls with disgust, staring down at his stomach. “It started up this morning and it won’t stop, again and again and  _I am not a ball for you to practice on_!” he lets loose an indignant howl of anger, tapping his fingertips against his stomach as if in retribution. “Christ, she’s Ty’s by the way she’s got the righteous need to punish me.”  
  
Mike and Michele are gaping at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I want to feel,” Michele says, off her stool.  
  
“Can I?” Mike asks, as if the mere feel of a baby kicking is enough to bring about world peace.  
  
Here Anders thought he was the one with pregnancy brain and therefore a ridiculous amount of stupidity and dullness cycling through his brain at this precise moment. The truth is that every kick is actually a good reminder that he’s bearing life, but also that the kid isn’t dead and he hasn’t managed to kill the thing through some carry-over of all the drugs and alcohol in his system.  
  
“I want a full steak dinner from you,” Anders says, poking his finger at Mike. “And you,” he says to Michele, “You touch my baby for your goddess ambitions and you die,” he warns.  
  
Michele brightens and nods. “Come on, let’s have a feel,” she says, wrapping both arms around Anders from behind and emasculating him  _even more than he thought possible_  and oh, no fucking way is this becoming a habit. “Don’t fret,” Michele purrs in his ear. “If we ever got to fuck, it would’ve been like this anyway. I would’ve loved taking you down a peg or two.”  
  
Anders lets out an indignant sound. “The baby has ears, you know! Little tiny receptive fucking ears!”  
  
“God help us all, then,” Mike scoffs, and gets in on the action.  
  
*  
  
 _Month Eight_  
  
When Ty comes home, there’s Tabasco on the counter, curry on the table, and Anders doesn’t let him get two feet in the door before he grabs hold of Ty by the collar and yanks him into a fervent and desperate kiss. He barely gets out a muffled sound of confusion when he sees Ingrid over Anders’ shoulder. Haphazardly, he waves.   
  
Finally, Anders lets go of him.  
  
“...what?”  
  
Ingrid gestures to the table. “Anders and I were talking about ways you can induce labour naturally.”  
  
Anders nods heatedly. “I want this baby out of me,” he growls. “I’m tired of Dawn looking at me sympathetically and asking me if I want more cake. I’m sick of wearing the baggiest jumpers ever so that people on the street don’t think I’m some freakshow and I am so sick of Olaf petting my stomach like I’m a fucking cat! I’m not a fucking cat, Ty!”  
  
“I know?” Ty manages, sensing that nothing much is going to stop Anders’ tirade.  
  
“And Stacey keeps making god-breeder jokes,” he snarls. “So you’re going to fuck me.”  
  
Ty blinks and stares at Ingrid. “I’m sorry, did he just say ...”  
  
“It’s actually very healthy,” Ingrid says eagerly. “We could try spicy foods and we could have you walk around a little?” she suggests, moving her fingers in a walking motion. “But, yes, Anders is right, sleeping together would probably ease the baby out as quickly as possible,” she says knowingly.  
  
Ty gapes at their goddess roommate and then down at Anders’ stomach, like the baby has some kind of opinion on this whole thing. Really, it’s mad, but he can’t deny that he’s started to get somewhat turned on and he can’t lie about the prospect of having Anders not-pregnant is cause enough to try everything they can.  
  
“Ingrid, you don’t have to stay and listen.”  
  
“That’s okay,” she says cheerfully, “I don’t mind, really.”  
  
“I sort of do,” Ty admits, but Anders is already tugging on his hand.  
  
“Come on, come the fuck on, if we hurry, we can probably do it a few times and try and pop this kid out tonight,” he says and apparently Ingrid is going to listen the whole time. Ty’s life is absolutely beyond insane and he only calms himself by pressing cool fingertips to Anders’ stomach and taking solace in the soft pitter-patter of the baby’s kicks against his hand.   
  
By morning, they’ve tried everything; spicy foods, walking, sex and sex and so much sex that Ty’s going to be walking crooked. Anders is still pregnant. “You’re only eight months and three weeks,” Ty says, trying to be reasonable with a grumpy Anders, which is usually the first indication that the words won’t have any meaning. “It was a long shot.”  
  
Anders lies on his back and splays his fingers over his raised belly. “What is it stays in there forever?”  
  
“This isn’t some god fable. When you start getting contractions, Michele is going to perform a c-section and get the baby out,” he says, taking pity on the pathetic look on Anders’ face. He leans over and kisses him soundly, wrapping his arms around him so that he can’t wriggle away. “Have you thought about having them tell us what to prepare for?”  
  
“Why?” Anders scoffs. “It’s not like blue  _or_  pink matches the whole death metal goddess of darkness and hell and mix-match crap you had going on with Hel,” he says.  
  
“Names, you idiot.”  
  
“Astrid for a girl, Henrik for a boy,” Anders says, tapping morse code against his belly. “Sorry, did you think you got a choice? Thanks for playing, Ty, but you knocked me up,” he growls. “You lost naming rights as soon as your little swimmers managed to lock with some tree of life eggs. Fucking tree.”  
  
“This kid is coming out swearing,” Ty sighs.   
  
“Good. They’ll fit right into the family.”  
  
*  
  
 _Month Nine & Three-Quarters_  
  
“I’m not sure he ought to be this loopy,” Ty says from the bedside chair.   
  
Two hours ago, Anders had finally admitted that no, he wasn’t having severe gas pains from Ingrid’s cooking and they were probably contractions. They were admitted under Michele’s care and Anders has laid the groundwork with a few nurses and helpers to make sure they don’t remember a single thing they see that day. “See what I do for you, little bug-a-boo,” he informs his stomach. His eyes are glassy, glazed, and unfocused, and he’s bordering on physically affectionate.  
  
“What did you give him?” Ty asks worriedly.  
  
“Something very, very strong. His constitution was knocking the lesser drugs off like flies,” Michele says with a purse of her lips. “Seriously, he needs to stop taking what he does in his spare time or he’s going to be practically made of narcotics.”  
  
Ty sighs as he grabs hold of Anders’ twirling hand. “Trust me, I know,” he gets out. “How long until he goes in?”  
  
“You’ve got another thirty minutes with him, Daddy,” Michele teases, winking before she leaves the two of them to their privacy.  
  
Ty isn’t sure what he could say now that hasn’t been said a dozen times before and it’s not like Anders is going to remember any of it given the level of drugs he’s on. He thinks of Axl and Mike, who are waiting at the house and getting it ready. He thinks of Olaf and Ingrid, who are in the waiting room and are going to keep him company since he refuses to be in the room (he’s not sure what being Hodr will do to the instruments).   
  
“Anders,” Ty finally breaks. “Are you scared?”  
  
“Fucking terrified,” Anders manages, a heady giggle trapped in his words.   
  
“Me too,” Ty admits with an easy laugh, like saying it out loud has loosened all his worries. He squeezes Anders’ hand as tight as he can right up until the moment they wheel him out and waits with Ingrid and Olaf while Michele and the other doctors do their work – work that most of them won’t remember, thanks to Bragi.   
  
Four hours later, one of the nurses wanders out and looks around. “Um,” she manages meekly. “I need to see the ‘fucker whose cold icy hand needs to wreak vengeance on both himself and the goddess slut?’” she says, colouring brightly.   
  
“That’s me,” Ty says with an exhalation, hoping that Anders has already stricken the poor girl’s memory of her need to say that. He shoots Ingrid and Olaf a smile and wanders into Anders’ hotel room. The drugs seem to have worn off because Anders is red in the face and he’s cursing more than Ty’s ever seen – which is saying a lot because Ty’s seen Anders when he’s pissed.   
  
He looks between Anders and Michele. “Where’s the baby?”  
  
“You tell him,” Anders snarls. “Tyrone, we have been fucking lied to! There’s no  _baby_.”  
  
White as a sheet, panic assaults Ty. “Oh, calm down,” Michele says with a roll of her eyes. “All he means to say is that there are two of them. You were being such an arse about all of this that I neglected to tell you that there are two.”  
  
Ty still wants to sit down, but for different reasons now.  
  
“I told you one of them was a girl,” she says, a superior smirk on her face. “And don’t worry, you still get a manly boy god to worry about. Astrid and Henrik,” she says. “They’re waiting for you in the newborn ward.”  
  
“She neglected to inform us about our fucking twins!” Anders shouts, his voice getting strangled with rage as Michele departs on that note and Ty is still sitting in the chair, trying to breathe because they bought one crib and one set of everything and it’s not like they didn’t share growing up, but Ty really hoped to get away from that.  
  
Ty looks up at Anders, that panic still stuck in his throat. “Twins?”  
  
“You need to be punched again,” Anders says darkly. “When I’m not as exhausted and hoarse and rough and sore as I am. Fuck, I’m never going to be able to have sex again with anyone who isn’t you without a lot of questions.”  
  
“Don’t make that sound so enthusiastic,” Ty notes sarcastically. “Can you stop being a raging dickwad for one second? You’re alive and well, the kids are good. We’re parents and we’re not gonna fuck it up the way Mum and Dad did,” he says, taking hold of all the good things. “We’re parents, Anders.”  
  
“Yeah,” Anders laughs, sinking back against the pillows. “Mike’s probably buzzing with anticipation at getting to fix all our fuck-ups. Thank god for him, because I know I’m definitely not going to be any good at this sort of thing.”  
  
Ty laughs and thinks of the children waiting for them to smarten up. “I’m going to see them and maybe grab my gloves out of the car so I can hold them. You coming?”  
  
Anders sleepily waves him off, mumbling something about a five-year nap, so that means he’s probably going to want to see the kids in a matter of minutes. Ty can wait. He’s been waiting this long, after all.  
  
*  
  
 _Year Two_  
  
“Tyrone!”  
  
“Daddy!”  
  
“ **Daddy**.”  
  
Ty looks up from where he’s trying to fix the ice cream maker – which wasn’t even his idea in the first place, yet Anders thinks it’s a great idea to buy new appliances when they’re still paying off the new house. He counts to ten and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to look through the lens of his new glasses instead of around them as is habit. Next to him, Mike takes a drink from his beer and Axl is stifling his laughter. “I’ll sic them on you,” Ty warns with a threat in the form of a pointed screwdriver, since Anders and the twins together are a formidable and immature force to be reckoned with.  
  
He steals Mike’s beer from him, knowing that if he’s coping with the kidlets, he’s going to need the liquid courage. Bracing himself, he takes off the glasses and ignores Axl’s continued sniggering before he wanders into the other room to find Anders hiding behind a giant pillow fort while the kids throw toys at him.  
  
“Quick, get down here!” Anders hisses, dragging Ty down by the wrist.   
  
“I thought this was important!”  
  
“It is important, it’s for the Kingdom of Eternia and if they win, I have to give them ice cream!”  
  
“Anders!” Ty shouts, ducking down when one of the little soldiers nearly clips his ear off. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t make me be the responsible one all the time, it gets really fucking exhausting.”  
  
“Daddy!” Astrid gasps with a giggle. “You swore.”  
  
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know what that word means,” Ty retorts, given that Anders doesn’t exactly watch his mouth around the kids and they’re probably in for a dozen parent-teacher interviews for that alone. “Remember, only Daddy and Anders are allowed to use those words,” he calls over, like it’ll do the trick. “You know, they’re going to call you Dad. It doesn’t matter how much I refer to you by your real name.”  
  
“Better than Mum,” Anders says, lunging forward for one of the beanie toys and launching it at Henry, catching him in the shoulder. “Yes, five points,” he says, but while he’s up completing his throw, both kids manage to hit Anders in the forehead – with a Barbie and a piece of plastic steak. “Ow! Fuck!”  
  
“We need a swear jar,” Ty mutters to himself, raising up a hand. “Truce! I call a truce! I concede rice krispie treats for the next three days.”  
  
He hears the hush and the muffled sound of eager debates, but eventually it’s Henry who pops up from behind their little fort. His brown hair is tousled, but his blue eyes are wide and innocent, like he hasn’t been afflicting violence on his fathers. “Four days?” he suggests. Astrid peeks up beside him. She’s got Ty’s skin tone, but Anders’ honey-coloured hair and the two hardly look like twins.   
  
“Four days,” Ty agrees, and the kids jump up in a victory cry, tackling Anders to the ground as they celebrate their victory.  
  
Axl and Mike have joined them now, staring at the scene on the ground. “Who knew that his emotional age would eventually pop in to help?”  
  
“He’s actually good at it,” Ty admits, which is something that doesn’t come easily. “I mean, for what you’d expect for Anders.”  
  
Right now, they’re two. Twenty-one is far, far away and he tries to ignore what Ingrid says about Agnetha being out of the picture and the likelihood of the kids being Freyr and Freya. He doesn’t think about parent-teacher conferences or having to have Anders lie to people so when they do attend things, they’re a normal couple and not brothers. That’s the future and that’s the rough side of things.  
  
Right now, he’s got his kids on the floor pinning Anders down like it’s easy – and, to be fair, it sort of is. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, to Mike and Axl. “I’m needed.” And with that, he joins in the pile, tickling Anders and Henry in turns, making faces at Astrid, and taking in the small joys of living a completely fucked-up life and yet reaping its rewards.  
  
  



End file.
